


Nothing in the World is Single

by StarSpray



Series: Wisdom of the Evening Star [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarSpray/pseuds/StarSpray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Befriending Elwing is not an easy task. Neither is trying to kiss her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_And the sunlight clasps the earth,_  
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—  
What is all this sweet work worth  
If thou kiss not me?  
\- Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Love’s Philosophy”

.

It was a beautiful sunset. Ribbons of cloud glimmered gold against a swiftly-deepening blue sky. Toward the darker east, the stars had begun to wink into view. On the western horizon, the waves shimmered pink and gold, and the westernmost sky still defied the coming night, awash in fire as Anor sank into the sea.

Eärendil stood on the shore watching it, unmoving, except for his hair that lifted on the breeze. Salt and sand crusted his legs up to his knees, and seawater stained his clothes. It was not often that he managed to come to the beach alone, and when he did he made sure it was at sunset.

He wasn’t sure why, only that he did not like moments such as this one to be broken by the presence of another.

At last, the last flames of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, and twilight set in, the stars coming out in force now, flickering white and cold in the purpling sky, and Eärendil turned toward home. He picked his way up the hill with ease, familiar with every step of the path, every stray rock or clump of coarse grass that might threaten to trip him up, and came at last to the courtyard that stood between two houses – the one in which Eärendil lived with his parents, and the one belonging to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.

And Elwing. Eärendil stopped at the water pump to wash the sand from his legs, and caught a glimpse of her through her bedroom window, peering out of it, watching him. When she caught him looking back, she yanked the curtains closed.

It was five years, almost, since the Gondolindrim had come to Sirion. In that time, Eärendil had come to realize several things about Elwing daughter of Dior.

Firstly: she was _very_ pretty, with eyes the color of the sky just before it snowed, and hair so fine it fell around her face and shoulders like feathery shadows that refused to adhere to any attempt at taming them with braids or ribbons, and features so delicate they reminded him of the crystal roses an artisan in Gondolin had crafted, that sparkled in the sunlight and cast dappled rainbows onto the wall.

Second: she never smiled. He thought she must have a lovely smile, because the rest of her was so pretty, but nothing seemed able to coax it out of her. She never wept, either – at least, not that Eärendil could tell. He never saw the sticky remnants of tears on her cheeks or the telltale red puffiness around her eyes or nose. She _did_ have a temper, that made her body go rigid, and her eyes flash with sudden fire so she looked almost fearsome (and _would_ look fearsome, when she was bigger), but this was a rare occurrence, and one that made Lord Celeborn sigh and mutter something about Thingol, to which Galadriel would murmur in reply something about Melian, or Lúthien.

And thirdly – and perhaps most importantly: Elwing, like him, was Halfelven. Not truly _half_ , he had learned, when he had questioned his mother a few months after his initial encounter with Elwing – but close enough. Even in Gondolin they had heard the rumors of Lúthien, the most beautiful princess of Elu Thingol and Queen Melian, and Beren, the mortal Man of the House of Bëor, who had braved the depths of Angband and the presence of Morgoth himself to steal a Silmaril, which Thingol had demanded before he would allow his daughter to marry a Man. Lúthien and Beren, Idril told Eärendil, were Elwing’s grandparents, through her father Dior, who had married Nimloth, the niece of Lord Celeborn.

Tuor had shaken his head after she was done, and said, “It was lucky for me that Turgon did not demand such a high bride price.”

Idril had laughed (though not as brightly as she once had, Eärendil noticed; she never did anymore, especially when her father was mentioned). “You were Ulmo’s messenger, after all,” she said. “And it would have been rather absurd for him to send you on such a quest when no one was permitted to leave Gondolin.”

“Yes, well, he could have had me do something else nigh impossible,” Tuor replied, grinning. “Carving your likeness from marble, for example, when all I’m capable of is grinding it into marble dust…”

Their banter continued, but Eärendil stopped listening after that. What really mattered – to him, anyway – was that he and Elwing were the only two children in Beleriand, as far as anyone knew, with the blood of both Men and Elves running through their veins.

He’d hoped that they would become friends – and he had tried everything he could think of to draw a smile out of her, but nothing seemed to work. Oh, lately she was coming out of her room and smiling and talking with visitors – but the smiles weren’t _real_ ; they never reached her eyes, even after five years in Sirion.

“Eärendil, there you are,” Tuor said as Eärendil entered the kitchen. His father was busy preparing dinner along with Voronwë, who dwelled with them. “Set the table, will you? Annael is dining with us tonight.”

“Yes, Adar.” Eärendil grabbed a handful of plates and trotted into the dining room, where his mother sat going over some papers.

“You’d best wash up before supper, Eärendil,” she said, glancing up briefly, just enough to take in his damp, salty appearance. “Where have you been all day?”

“At the harbor.” He had befriended Aerandir, a young elf not much older – in maturity, anyway – than Eärendil, and they were building a skiff together, to sail around the bay. “And then I stopped to watch the sunset.”

“I saw it from the window,” Idril said, smiling as she gathered up her papers as he set the dishes down. “It was lovely.”

But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Maybe she thought Eärendil couldn’t tell – but he always could. He remembered when her smile _always_ reached her eyes, in Gondolin before that fateful midsummer celebration.

(The Gondolindrim did not celebrate Midsummer anymore. The Sindar did, but kept their bonfires and wild dances away from where the Noldor lived, respecting the pain of those memories.)

Dinner that evening was a merry affair – it always was, when Tuor’s foster-father visited. Eärendil listened to and laughed at stories of his father’s childhood in Mithrim, because Annael delighted in telling them, and listened more quietly to news of Annael’s daughter Caleniel, who dwelt on Balar and had given birth to a baby girl a few years before.

After supper, Eärendil retreated to his room, which overlooked the sea, and he sat at his window, staring at the stars, and out over the horizon. On a moonless night, like this one, it was impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.

He fell asleep at the window, and woke with a stiff neck when his father knocked on his door to call him to breakfast. It would be a quick affair, eaten hurriedly in the kitchen – at least by the adults. Today was the day the council met to discuss the affairs of the Havens. Eärendil had attended one or two of these meetings, and they were deathly boring, except when tempers flared – usually around issues connected to the tension still lingering between the Iathrim and Gondolindrim.

It was through these councils that Eärendil had learned _why_ that tension even existed. Before that his parents had tried to keep from him the kinslayings, and the Sons of Fëanor and their terrible Oath. And because they were Noldor, there were some refugees from Doriath who distrusted those from Gondolin, though they had nothing to do with the kinslaying.

So Eärendil had the day to himself again. No lessons or chores, while the adults were busy.

He decided to pay Elwing a visit. She was the only child in Sirion close to his age – and the only one he was unlikely to outgrow in just a few years. But she wasn’t at home, and her nurse, Luinnel, had not seen her. “I think she might be in the garden, Eärendil,” she said, “but I do not think she is in the mood for company today.”

When was she _ever_ in the mood for company? Eärendil went to the garden anyway. The roses were in full bloom, and the whole garden was filled with their heady perfume. He caught a glimpse of dark hair, and headed toward it – only to find it vanishing behind a clump of honeysuckle bushes, long past their flowering and now sporting bright red berries. He’d once eaten those berries, from bushes that grew in someone’s garden in Gondolin (he forgot whose, now), and had made himself sick. His mother had been concerned, but his father had just shaken his head and called it a lesson learned, and that they were only mildly poisonous – nothing to worry about.

Turgon had been there, and that had sparked a debate about varieties of honeysuckle in Middle-earth and in Valinor, where apparently there was a bush with berries that _could_ be eaten. Eärendil had lost interest quickly; he’d been no more than five at the time, and had no interest at all in the flora of the distant West.

Now he was wondering what lay behind the honey suckle bushes, besides the garden wall, that would draw Elwing to them. He trotted over and crouched down to peer through the leaves, but did not see Elwing at all. “Elwing?” He pushed his way through, and found just the garden wall.

With a hole in it, carefully enlarged from what he supposed had been a small weakness when it had first been built. He shook his head. “So that’s where you disappear to all the time…” He poked his head through the hole and saw her vanishing into the wheat fields that lay between the Havens and the forests of Nimbrethil.

Without thinking, he followed, running into the wheat and just managing to keep her in view. She was so fast! Eärendil had thought she spent all of her time inside, locked away in her room or with her nurse, but apparently she slipped away like this often. She easily dodged those working the fields, and Eärendil followed her lead.

They were heading for the forest. Eärendil slowed down as she disappeared without hesitation into its eaves. The birch trees towered over him, waving and rustling in the breeze, their trunks like tarnished silver in the shade. Eärendil stared at them, spotting the occasional beech or maple tree, and remembered the last great forest he had set foot in.

Neldoreth had been vast, and filled with twisting shadows and thick underbrush. The shadows, it was said, were the remnant of Melian’s enchanted Girdle that had guarded the kingdom for so long. But she was gone, and there was nothing, magical or not, to stop them from passing through, except for the prickling feeling that they were not alone. There were ghosts in Doriath, people whispered, including Tuor.

And Eärendil could not argue. He’d been plagued with strange dreams all the time they were in Doriath, of music and of a woman’s faint laughter or singing, her hair like shadows as she spun, flowers blooming under her feet.

He was sure that it was Lúthien he’d dreamed of. Elwing’s grandmother. Neldoreth had been her forest, and it remembered her still. Nimbrethil, it seemed, was Elwing’s.

In the end, he followed her in in spite of his misgivings and thoughts of ghosts. There was nothing else for him to do, and he told himself he was being silly, worrying about ghosts. There were no ghosts in Nimbrethil, only a girl-child.

So he followed her.

The forest was a completely different world from the wheat fields, or from the beach where Eärendil spent most of his time. The sunlight was tinged with green, and shone on the ground in dancing, dappled patterns. It was cool in the shade beneath the trees, and smelled of rich earth and moldering leaves, and birdsong filled it all.

There was a well-trodden path that Eärendil thought must have once been a game trail, worn smooth by much use from someone with small, light feet. And dark hair. Eärendil found a strand of it dangling from a low-hanging branch where it had been caught. It was most definitely Elwing’s: she had hair so fine it practically floated around her head like feather-light shadows, no matter what Luinnel did.

Eärendil followed the trail slowly and as quietly as he could, not wanting to startle Elwing. What he would do when he caught up to her, he wasn’t sure. Now that he thought of it, Elwing more than likely did not want to be followed, and would probably be angry with him.

He found her crouched by a pond, which opened up so suddenly in the forest that he blinked at the bright sunlight glittering on its surface, flat and glassy and so _quiet_. He’d almost forgotten, after the Sea, that water could be quiet. Elwing knelt and was so completely still he might have mistaken her for a statue, if not for the movement of her hair in the wind. She was staring at something in the water, and did not seem aware of his presence. Eärendil stood for several moments, watching her, before deciding that he should leave.

But as he turned to go, she spoke. “I know you’re there.” And then she moved, turning and raising her head. “You’re awfully loud,” she said. Eärendil froze, and felt himself blush. “Go _away_ , Eärendil.”

“Why?” he asked, turning back around and going to crouch beside her instead. “What are you doing out here?”

She glared at him, though it was half-hidden behind a fall of shadow-black hair. “I said go _away_.”

“And I asked why,” he replied, sitting down and crossing his legs. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, you know. Does Lord Celeborn know?”

Her face went white (whit _er_ , if that was possible, she was so pale), and she sat back on her heels. “I like the forest,” she said. Then, after a pause, she asked, “Are you going to _tell_ him?”

Eärendil shook his head, but the suspicious glare remained on her face. She didn’t believe him. He just stared back, knowing she could read in his face that he really wasn’t lying. He would not tell Lord Celeborn if she did not tell his parents – and he knew that was not going to happen. Neither of them should be out in the forest alone.

“Then are you going to go away?” Elwing asked finally.

“No.”

“Why _not?_ ” She shook her hair out of her face, still glaring. It was that glare that made Celeborn mutter about Thingol, and Lady Galadriel about Lúthien. Perhaps on one of their faces Eärendil would have quailed, but Elwing was still a child, however oddly she acted, and it was easy to withstand her anger.

In a few years, however, Eärendil thought that things would be different. “Why do you come out here alone?” he asked. It was one thing to be fond of the forest – Luinnel, or someone else could come walk beneath the trees with her. But to come out by _herself_ – that was different.

“To _be_ alone,” she said, and got to her feet. “I hope you can find your own way back, Eärendil.” And then she fled.

“Hey! Hey – wait!” Eärendil scrambled to his feet and ran after her. “Elwing!”

But she was gone, vanished into the underbrush without a trace. Eärendil swore with words learned from eavesdropping on sailors at the harbor, and then sighed. He supposed he should have expected something like this. “ _Fine_ ,” he said, raising his voice, in case she was somewhere nearby. “I’m going back home, then. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

He started to walk, but found himself going in circles. After a while he stopped, swearing to himself that he had passed that walnut tree at least a dozen times. He should have come to the edge of the forest _ages_ ago.

He was lost.

Eärendil stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Somewhere, Elwing was surely laughing at him. He opened his eyes, and found a tree nearby that he thought he could climb. If he could see Sirion from its branches, he would know which direction to go.

As he started to climb, he heard rustling behind him, and froze. “Hello?” Silence. “Elwing? Is that you?” He dropped to the ground and turned around, heart pounding. _This isn’t Doriath there aren’t any ghosts this isn’t Doriath don’t be stupid._

A hand landed on his shoulder, and  he yelled, spinning around and stumbling, tripping over a root and falling onto his back. All the air left his lungs in a painful _whoosh_ , and he found himself staring up at Elwing. She stared back, her lips pressed together oddly, like she was trying very hard not to smile.

When he could breathe he gasped, “What did you do that for?”

“I didn’t think you would yell like that,” Elwing said. “You shouldn’t climb this tree.”

“Why not?” Eärendil demanded. He got to his feet carefully, chest aching. Elwing just pointed up. He followed her finger, and after a moment of squinting in confusion, he saw it: a bee hive. A _large_ hive, absolutely crawling with bees. He stumbled backward again, and almost fell before catching himself. “Oh.”

“You’re hopeless,” Elwing said. “Follow me, or we’ll both be late and in trouble.”

Eärendil hurried after her. “I’m not _hopeless_ ,” he said. “I just – I haven’t had to find my way through the forest alone before. That’s all.”

“Hopeless,” she repeated without turning around.

He decided not to argue. Breathing still hurt, and Elwing moved swiftly and easily through the underbrush, following game trails and hunters’ paths. In no time they left the forest and raced through the wheat fields to that hole in the wall, hidden behind the honeysuckle bushes in the garden.

Once they were through, Eärendil turned to look at the bushes. “What do you do when winter comes?” he asked. The hole should have been visible once the bushes lost their leaves, and he would think that someone would have thought to repair it.

Elwing didn’t answer, and when Eärendil turned around again, she was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Eärendil put down his hammer and sat back on his heels, gazing westward as Anor sank toward the sea. Aerandir glanced up at him, and then toward the sunset. That evening it was not a brilliant, fiery display, but a gentle easing into twilight, with only a few wisps of cloud to turn gold against the pale orange sky before it faded into night. “I suppose that is our signal to stop our work for the evening,” he said with a sigh, as lanterns flickered to life along the wharf.

That had not been Eärendil’s thought, but he nodded. “It probably won’t be long before my mother sends someone to search for me,” he said.

“Well, you _are_ but a wee child of fifteen…” Aerandir ducked, laughing when Eärendil tossed a barnacle at him, recently torn from the hull of their skiff. “I’ll walk you home.”

As they walked through Sirion, they encountered Luinnel, who had been Elwing’s nurse when she was small. Eärendil supposed she still considered herself a nurse. After all, Elwing was his age, and few Elves understood how quickly Men grew. She greeted Eärendil and Aerandir with a smile, and asked Eärendil to give her greetings to his parents.

After they bid Luinnel good evening, Aerandir remarked, “I was a little disappointed last week at Elwing’s begetting day celebration.”

“Why?” Eärendil asked.

“You remember that rumor going around that she’d wear the Nauglamír to the celebration? She didn’t.”

Eärendil raised an eyebrow. “You _believed_ that rumor?” Elwing _never_ wore the Nauglamír. No one had seen it, not even any of the Sindar, since Dior had worn it in Menegroth. There was an equally persistent rumor that the Nauglamír had been lost in the sack of Doriath, and that Elwing didn’t possess it at all. Eärendil thought she _did_ have it, judging from the closed expressions everyone in her household adopted every time it was mentioned.

“Well, you know. One can always hope.”

“Why?”

“I just want to _see_ it. The Silmaril. Fëanor’s greatest work, hallowed by Varda Elbereth herself.”

Eärendil shrugged. He was part of the wrong branch of Finwë’s family to truly appreciate Fëanor or his accomplishments. Aerandir was half-Noldo; his father’s parents had crossed the Helcaraxë as part of Fingon’s host, and his mother was one of the Falathrim. That removed him enough from the complicated family politics of the House of Finwë to have no qualms about admiring Fëanor – and the Silmarils – at least from a craftsman’s perspective.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Eärendil,” Aerandir said when they parted, and walked off swinging his arms and whistling into the twilight. Eärendil went to the water pump in the center of the courtyard to rinse the grime and dirt off his hands and legs.

As he did so, movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He looked up in time to see a shadowy figure pass over the roof of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel’s house. He straightened, frowning up there, oddly reminded of that story of Lúthien’s escape from the house Thingol had built in – what was that tree called? He couldn’t remember. She’d woven a cloak of her own hair and somehow that had put the guards to sleep.

Now, Eärendil wondered if her granddaughter was not attempting to do the same. He wandered around the side of the house, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the rooftop.

In the end, his curiosity grew overwhelming, and he found a trellis near the garden wall and climbed to the roof himself.

Elwing sat up sharply. “What are you doing?” she hissed. Her skin shone particularly pale in the starlight, and her eyes were like stars beneath her hair. Eärendil found himself staring, unable to speak for a moment. Was this what it was like for Beren, then, when he first laid eyes on Lúthien?

“Get down from here,” Elwing hissed again. She sounded like a frustrated cat, which shattered the moment.

“What are you doing up here?” Eärendil asked, climbing fully onto the roof instead, moving carefully so as not to alert anyone in the room below to activity above.

Elwing crossed her arms and scowled at him. Her glare was more formidable now than it had been when they were younger, but he couldn’t really see it in the darkness. Her hair was like a living shadow, floating around her head, soft and fine as silk. “I’m up here for the same reason I was in the forest when you followed me there,” she said.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Eärendil said, drawing his knees to his chest and looping his arms around them. “One of the gardeners found the whole in the wall behind the honeysuckle last spring, and it’s all covered, now. Do you still sneak into the woods?”

“Do you think I would tell you if I did?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps not. I suppose the fixed wall wouldn’t be much of a hindrance to you. If you can climb up here, you can certainly scale a wall.” She didn’t answer. “What were you doing in the forest, that day? At the pond, I mean. Staring at the water?”

For a long while, she didn’t reply, and he started to think she wouldn’t. But finally, she said, “I was watching the tadpoles.”

“Tadpoles?”

She gave him a look - the one that said he was hopeless. “Baby frogs. They hatch from eggs but they don’t _look_ like frogs. As they grow they sort of…change. I liked watching it.”

“Oh.”

“You smell like fish,” she said after a moment, wrinkling her nose.

“I was down at the quays.”

“Why?”

“Aerandir and I - we like to sail around the bay. But our skiff foundered last week. It was becoming too small for us anyway, so we’re building a bigger sailboat.”

“Oh.”

They lapsed into silence. It was an uncomfortable silence, but not as uncomfortable as it had been. Eärendil looped his arms around his knees and stared up at the sky; his eyes were drawn immediately to the Valacirca, swinging in the north. The Sickle of the Valar. His mother had told him how Varda had placed it there as a warning, but did that warning mean anything anymore? Just that morning more refugees had stumbled into Sirion, Laiquendi from Ossiriand who could no longer roam as was their wont, because Morgoth’s beasts roamed too, and their numbers were larger.

After a while, Elwing spoke again. “Your parents will be wondering where you are.”

Eärendil grimaced. That was true. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Elwing,” he said, sliding toward the trellis.

“Good night, Eärendil.”

“Good night.”

He didn’t see Elwing again until a few days later, when she happened upon him in the garden. She halted when he looked up. “I thought you were at the harbor, I’m sorry.” She turned as though to flee.

“Wait,” Eärendil said. Elwing turned back, frowning. He grinned. “Not everyone dislikes unexpected company, you know.”

“Did you not come out here to be alone?”

“I came out here because the grass is comfortable and the sun is warm,” Eärendil said. He gestured to the grass beside him. “See for yourself.”

Elwing carefully sat, arranging her skirts neatly on the grass as Eärendil turned his gazes back to his whittling. “Why _aren’t_ you at the harbor?” she asked after a moment.

“There is a council meeting this afternoon, and my mother had decided I’m old enough to attend more regularly,” Eärendil replied. “She says it’s likely one day you and I will be ruling Sirion, and it’s time I started learning how.”

“Why would you need concern yourself? Your mother is the leader of the Gondolindrim…”

Eärendil shrugged. His parents had been having whispered conversations lately that ceased the moment he entered the room. They were planning something, or thinking of planning something, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was. “Nothing is certain.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Elwing watched as he brushed wood shavings off his tunic. “Eärendil?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you keep following me places?”

“I’ve only followed you twice.”

“Well, yes, but why?”

He shrugged. “Misguided attempts to get you to talk to me?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her lips twitch. “And, well, curiosity. I didn’t think you left your room before I spotted you sneaking off into Nimbrethil.” He finished the last touches on his carving, and picked up a piece of sharkskin Aerandir had given him to smooth it. As he worked, they lapsed into silence - still not completely comfortable, but still friendlier than the night before. And when he was done, Eärendil held the finished product - a comb - out to Elwing. “For you.”

“Me?” Elwing took it carefully, running her fingers lightly over the roses he’d carved into the handle. “It’s lovely.” And then she smiled - a small smile, but a genuine one. “Thank you, Eärendil.”

“You’re welcome.”

The moment was shattered a moment later by the sound of breaking glass, followed by cursing and startled exclamations. Eärendil leapt to his feet and ran inside, finding a mirror in shards on the floor, and his father storming out of the room, leaving a trail of blood drops in his wake. His mother stared after Tuor, fear and concern and helpless frustration warring on her face, before she noticed Eärendil’s presence. “What happened?” he demanded as Elwing joined him.

“Nothing,” Idril said too quickly. She moved for the broom, but Elwing beat her to it. “Excuse me…” Idril disappeared after Tuor, leaving Eärendil utterly confused, and not a little frightened.

“What…?”

“They fought, Eärendil,” Elwing said softly. “Couples fight. You should hear Galadriel and Celeborn, sometimes.”

Eärendil could easily imagine Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn arguing. Both of them were strong-willed and proud, Noldor clashing with Sindar. But _his_ parents? Idril and Tuor never fought - at least, not like this. Things did not _break_ when they argued. He almost said so, but decided against it. Instead he took the broom from Elwing. “You needn’t clean this up, Elwing.”

“I want to help,” she said, taking it back. “Fetch a rag and clean up the blood before it sets into the floor.”

Deciding one argument was enough for one day, Eärendil obeyed, and together they set the room to rights, minus the mirror. Eärendil turned over one of the larger shards in his fingers, frowning, as the cook brought them lunch, along with news that neither Tuor nor Idril would be attending the council meeting that day. Elwing thanked her graciously, and when she left, said, “You will be expected to take their place, Eärendil.”

“I don’t know anything about leading people,” he said.

“I don’t think anyone will expect much leadership today,” Elwing said. “We will be going over the harvest and what needs to be done to ensure we survive the winter. Celeborn thinks we will need to send out extra hunters in the coming weeks, but the harvests the past few years have been unusually good.”

Eärendil set down the mirror shard and picked up a slice of cheese. “Have you heard why?”

Elwing glanced at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“They’re saying your Silmaril is responsible. It’s good luck, or a blessing, or some such thing.”

To his surprise, Elwing scowled. “It’s not the Silmaril,” she said flatly. “What good have the Silmarils ever brought _anybody?_ ”

Eärendil blinked. “I’m only repeating what I’ve heard,” he said. “But weren’t they hallowed by Varda Elbereth…?”

“Maybe, but a jewel in a chest doesn’t make the crops grow. Good weather and good farmers make crops grow.” Elwing closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t like talking about the Silmaril, Eärendil.”

“Then we won’t talk about it,” he replied. Somewhere in the house he heard muffled shouting. It sounded like his parents. He grimaced. “What do you suppose they’re fighting about?”

“I could not say.” Elwing smoothed her skirts with one hand, running her thumb over the comb he had given her with the other. “Have you heard what else the people say, Eärendil?”

“They say a lot of things,” he replied.

“Yes. One of those things is that you and I would make a good match.”

He looked up sharply. “And what are _you_ saying?”

“It would be a terrible idea, I think. We would argue all the time.”

Eärendil laughed. “I doubt that. We’d hardly spend any time together at all. You would disappear into the forest and I would sail the sea.”

“We would meet only at mealtimes, I suppose. Between your voyages, of course.”

“And on special occasions. Festivals, and the like.”

“And we would _look_ so terribly odd. You a Noldo and I a Sinda.”

“I don’t know about _that_. Galadriel is a Noldo, and Celeborn a Sinda.”

“Galadriel is a descendant of Thingol’s brother Olwë, so that hardly counts. You are Noldo through and through.”

“Technically I am only half-Noldo, since my father is a Man of the House of Hador,” Eärendil said.

“As my grandfather was a Man of the House of Bëor,” Elwing replied with a small smile. “And there you have it: we are both Halfelven, aren’t we? Perhaps the only thing we have in common.” She glanced out of the window, and stood. “The council will be meeting soon. I hope you’ve a good explanation for your parents’ absence ready.”

Eärendil grimaced. “Will Lady Galadriel be there?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe she’ll have an idea.”

In the end the members of the council had to be satisfied with the simple explanation, “Lady Idril and Lord Tuor are indisposed.” They certainly could not demand more detail when Lady Galadriel looked down her nose at them. Most seemed to forget about it anyway, when they saw Eärendil take a seat beside Elwing. He did not miss their looks of approval, or Elwing’s sigh. He wondered if the fact that they ignored each other for almost the entire meeting would do anything to lessen the rumors, but he doubted it.

Sirion thrived on gossip, after all.

When Eärendil returned home, he found his father in the courtyard with Voronwë, laughing about something. If his hand had not sported a bandage, one might think nothing had happened. Eärendil dodged their questions about the meeting and went inside, where he found his mother in the parlor, sitting by the window overlooking the sea. She held a mug of mulled wine, and her eyes were unusually swollen, and rimmed with pink. “Nana?” Eärendil hovered in the doorway, not sure if she wanted to be disturbed.

But she smiled and held out a hand. “There you are, Eärendil. How did the meeting go?”

“Sirion is well set for the winter,” he replied, going to sit on the floor beside her, resting his head on her knee like he’d done as a child. “Are _you_ well?”

“Of course,” she said, running her fingers over his hair. “I saw Elwing with you earlier. Have you finally decided to become friends?”

“Maybe. But earlier…”

“Your father and I fought. It happens, sometimes. You needn’t worry, Eärendil.”

Eärendil frowned, but let it go, not sure that it was really his place to push the issue.

Eventually Eärendil left the house. In spite of his mother’s words, the tension was so thick inside he felt difficulty breathing. There were still several hours of daylight left, so Eärendil went down to the beach to see if anything interesting had washed up with the tide.

He walked a ways down the shore, away from Sirion, meandering between the wet and dry sands and letting the cold water wash over his bare feet. It would be too cold, soon, for that. The steady sound of the waves rushing in and dragging out was as calming as ever, drowning out everything else, except for the cries of half a dozen gulls wheeling overhead.

The high tide had left behind plenty of seashells, and it wasn’t long before Eärendil’s pockets bulged with them, and he entertained thoughts of stringing them into a necklace. For his mother, maybe.

As the sun sank westward once again, he turned back toward home, seeing the lamps at the harbor already winking into life in the distance.

And closer, there was someone else on the beach, with dark hair and a pale gown damp with the spray, and soaked at the hems. He smiled, and picked up his pace. “I thought you didn’t like the Sea,” he said when he met Elwing, who had stopped to pick up a seashell of her own.

“I saw you come this way, and thought I would follow.” She turned the shell over in her fingers. “See how you like being followed.” She glanced up, with a sparkle in her eyes he’d never seen before - and that was _definitely_ the curve of a smile on her lips.

“Better than you, anyway,” he said, taking her arm and moving them back from the water; it was getting uncomfortably cold, and neither of them wore shoes. He grinned at her. “I told you, remember, not everyone dislikes unexpected company.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, regarding him with a mix of curiosity and vague amusement. “Do you never then yearn for solitude, for the company of nothing but your own thoughts?”

“Yes, of course I do.” Usually that was when he escaped here, to the beach, to watch the sun set. He glanced toward the horizon, already flaming with vibrant pink and clouds shot with threads of gold. “Usually I like watching the sunset alone.”

“Why?” Elwing looked to the west as well.

“I don’t know.” He didn’t look away from the sun; to do so would mean missing it. “But it’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“And there will never be another sunset just like this one. It is utterly unique, and so fleeting, this one moment between the light of day and the twilight.”

They stood together in silence as Anor sank at last beyond the western seas, and the sky faded, as the gloaming set in, stars winking to life like diamonds. Elwing tipped her head back, gazing at them, fiery gems flung into the sky by Varda Elbereth so long ago. She looked so pretty in that moment that Eärendil felt the most ridiculous impulse to kiss her.

But before he could even start to lean forward, she turned away, the wet hem of her dress whispering over the sand. “We should get back before it gets too dark, or they will worry.”

“Right.” Eärendil took her hand and together they ran across the sand.

Then, suddenly, Elwing started laughing, slowing to a walk and releasing Eärendil’s hand. “What is that in your _pockets?_ ” she asked. Her nose scrunched up when she laughed, and a dimple appeared on the left side of her mouth. It was the first time Eärendil had seen her genuinely smile, and his suspicions had been right: it was _lovely_.

“My pockets?” Eärendil realized suddenly the seashells he’d collected were clinking together, making him sound rather ridiculous when he ran. He joined Elwing’s laughter, and pulled one out to show her. “I was collecting seashells.”

“They sound like strange bells, clinking together like that.”

“Sea bells, perhaps. I was thinking of stringing them together...”

Eärendil did not take her hand again until they reached the steep path leading back up the cliffs. Then he clasped it firmly, guiding through the deepening shadows, and catching her when she stumbled - which wasn’t often: Elwing seemed to have no more trouble seeing in the darkness than an owl, and only tripped when she overstepped.

In the courtyard, they took turns rinsing the sand from their feet, and then Elwing flashed Eärendil a smile. “Good night, Eärendil.”

“Good night, Elwing.”


	3. Chapter Three

If Eärendil thought that friendship between himself and Elwing would continue to steadily grow, the coming of winter showed him his mistake. Elwing disappeared again, to her rooms or to the forest, he wasn’t sure, and he only saw her when the council met (which wasn’t terribly often, given Sirion’s prosperity and relative security) and when they were thrust into some social setting. And at those times they did their best to avoid eye contact, let alone conversation, in favor of discouraging rumors concerning their _romantic_ relationship.

Or lack thereof.

Winter in Sirion was dark and grey and damp, for the most part, punctuated by squalls blowing in from the bay, and snowfall blowing from farther inland. That meant Eärendil was trapped inside most of the season, and by the time Midwinter arrived, he felt like he would go mad.

His mother’s attitude towards the cold didn’t help matters, either. Eärendil was expressly forbidden from going anywhere near the sea during the winter, especially when it was cold enough for ice and snow, and if he tried to go outside without a pair of gloves, let alone a coat, she seemed, somehow, to _know_ , and swooped in to chastise him fiercely.

“It isn’t even _that_ cold,” he muttered one afternoon as he dug through a chest in his room, searching for the gloves he’d misplaced.

“Humor her,” Voronwë said from the doorway. “You forget, Eärendil, she crossed the Helcaraxë. That crossing taught all to be wary of the cold, and she fears for you. My father was much the same way. Though you are more susceptible to the elements, being a child of Men, and I think your mother is right to worry.”

Feeling abashed, but also somewhat defiant, Eärendil didn’t answer. He found his gloves under his desk, in the end, and escaped into the garden. It was late afternoon, and twilight was already starting to set in, although it made no discernible difference yet: heavy clouds had obscured the sun all day, and now they were at last releasing their frozen burden. Heavy snowflakes drifted around Eärendil as he crunched through the existing drifts to the sea-facing wall. He could barely see the Sea, but he could hear it, the dull roar of the waves sounding strange in the otherwise silent afternoon. Snow had that strange, muffling effect on the world, rendering it almost silent.

Yet at the same time, sound carried more easily. Eärendil heard the swish of a skirt across the snow, and light footsteps long before Elwing came into view. She paused a moment before joining him at the wall. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello, Elwing.” Eärendil flashed her a smile, and she raised an eyebrow. Perhaps it was not as convincing as he’d thought. “What brings you out here?”

“The quiet,” she said, dropping her gaze to the wall. She brushed some snow off the top with a gloved hand. “I always forget how awful snow-quiet is, so I crave it until I step outside.”

“What do you mean?”

“After…” Elwing bit her lip. “The Fëanorians came in the winter,” she said after a long pause. “Doriath was filled with snow. It was night when they came; I’d spent that afternoon playing on the banks of the Esgalduin, building a fortress of snow with my brothers. It didn’t seem quiet, then. Our mother played with us, and the forest echoed with our laughter. But after we escaped - Celeborn and me, I mean - it was night, and there had been so much _noise_ inside Menegroth. Shouting, and screaming, and swords and fire… Going outside was like having cloth stuffed in my ears.”

“I’m sorry.” Eärendil had never heard her speak of Menegroth’s fall. He’d never heard _anyone_ speak of it, beyond the news brought to Gondolin by the eagles. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s all right. I think the quiet was a relief, then. Only now I keep thinking about my brothers. They died out in the snow. In the silence. Servants of Celegorm took them, and left them out there to freeze, or to starve. Perhaps as revenge; I’m told my father killed Celegorm himself.” She paused again. Then smiled ruefully. “I’ve never really spoken about that day to anyone.”

“You don’t have to talk about it to me if you don’t want to,” Eärendil said.

“It’s easier to speak to you than I would have thought,” she said. “Truly, I never expected us to be friends.”

“Why not?”

“Your heart is given to the sea, and mine to the forest.” Elwing glanced toward Nimbrethil. “You fear the forest.”

“I don’t…” Eärendil started to protest, but thought better of it when Elwing turned back to him, eyebrow raised. He remembered the way she’d looked, that afternoon he’d followed her into the trees. She’d been utterly at home, there, and he’d not gone a hundred yards into the wood before getting hopelessly lost. “We passed through Doriath, on our way south,” he said.

“I know.”

“Well - the forest remembered the Iathrim. Or at least it remembered Melian, and Lúthien. You could feel it in the trees, and there were strange mists and shifting shadows that folk said were a remnant of Melian’s Girdle. They said there were ghosts there. I suppose I half-believe it still.”

He fully expected Elwing to explain to him that there were no ghosts in Doriath and that he was being ridiculous, but she didn’t. Instead she said, “There are no ghosts in Nimbrethil. Perhaps when spring comes I can teach you some woodcraft.”

“Only if you let me teach you sailing,” Eärendil replied. “But you know, such things will fuel the gossip mongers of Sirion. They’re already convinced we’re more than half in love.”

“Let them talk.” Elwing tossed her hair out of her face, shaking some of the snowflakes free. “I’ve decided I don’t care what they say.”

“What if they aren’t all wrong?” Eärendil asked, leaning against the wall and tilting his head back to watch the snowflakes fall towards them. Elwing fell silent; he could feel her eyes on him. He almost regretted saying anything.

“Then I still wouldn’t care what they said,” she replied finally. “I would have other concerns. I’m going to go inside, now. Good evening, Eärendil.”

“Evening…” He sighed, once she was out of earshot. “Wonderful work, Eärendil. Now you’ve probably ruined everything.”

As darkness settled across the land in earnest, Eärendil retreated back inside, and retreated to his room. Círdan was spending the winter in Sirion, and he had been locked away with Idril and Tuor for the past few days, discussing plans no one seemed particularly eager to share. Eärendil thought it had something to do with his father’s growing restlessness. He could hear their muffled voices as he passed by the door, and it took a large portion of his willpower not to stop and listen at the keyhole.

The next morning, however, found his parents, Voronwë, and Círdan going to visit Galadriel and Celeborn across the way, leaving Eärendil to his own devices. He slipped into the study, and found plans and sketches spread across the desk, filled with both his parents’ handwriting, plus an unfamiliar, firm script that must have been Círdan’s.

They were planning and designing a ship. Eärramë, it was to be called. Eärendil frowned as he examined one of the papers, outlining a list of supplies needed for the building. That did his parents need a ship for?

As he left the room, he found the cook wandering the halls, apparently looking for him. “Oh, there you are, Master Eärendil. Lady Elwing is here to see you.”

Eärendil froze. “She is?”

“I’ve shown her into the parlor, and I’ll send Ivorin out with some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Eärendil entered the parlor unsure of what to expect. He’d practically admitted he was in love with her, and Elwing’s reaction had not been particularly encouraging, after all. “Good afternoon, Elwing,” he said carefully, taking a seat across from her, by the large window that overlooked the sea. It was where they had sat the last time she had taken tea with him. “Hello,” he said after a moment of awkward silence. “What brings you here?”

“I needed to get away,” Elwing replied. She sat with her hands clasped loosely in her lap; if she felt as awkward as Eärendil did, it didn’t show. “Círdan has been teasing Celeborn all morning, telling tales of him as a child.”

Eärendil frowned. “Celeborn was once a child?” It was hard to imagine, although, when he thought about it, less difficult than imagining Lady Galadriel small enough to be bounced on someone’s knee.

“Mm. I left when the tales turned to what Lúthien was like when she was small.” Elwing paused as Ivorin entered the room. Eärendil thanked her as she set down the tea tray, and when they were alone again Elwing added, “Talk of Lúthien usually leads to talk of me.” She wrinkled her nose as Eärendil poured the tea. He almost stopped to ask what was wrong with it, but she continued, “They like to compare me to her. As though _anyone_ could compare to Lúthien Tinúviel.”

“And I’m the only person you know who never met her, and thus cannot make such comparisons?” Eärendil raised an eyebrow. Elwing shrugged. “I’m almost insulted. Here I thought you came to visit because you enjoy my company.”

That made her laugh. “I suppose your company is enjoyable, as well.” She accepted her teacup with murmured thanks, and sipped the steaming liquid thoughtfully. “Do you know why Círdan is here in Sirion for the winter? I thought he rarely left Balar.”

“I think he’s going to build a ship for my parents. Or help them build it. Or something.” Eärendil sipped his own tea, struggling to keep his expression impassive. “But I don’t think I’m supposed to know that. I slipped into the study and found plans on my father’s desk this morning.”

“Your father does speak often of the sea,” Elwing said. “I’m a little surprised it’s taken this long for him to think of sailing.”

“But where would they sail?” Eärendil asked. “To Balar and back? It’s not a fishing boat they’re planning in there, but one for long voyages.”

Elwing shrugged. “You’ve spoken of taking long voyages.”

“Yes, but…” Eärendil stopped. He had been about to say that he was not nearly as old as his father was, but realized that that was the first time he’d truly thought of his father as _aging_. “Well. That’s different.”

“Maybe.”

Elwing seemed to sense his sudden discomfort, so their talk turned to other things - the weather, their mutual longing for spring, the ragtag group of Men who had stumbled into Sirion early that morning. The dead of winter was not a good time for building, so finding shelter for all of them - including a half a dozen children under the age of five - was proving to be a struggle. “Their leader and his wife visited us last night,” Elwing said. “They had encountered some of the Green Elves in Ossiriand, but I think Galadriel frightened them more than a little bit. And they found Celeborn terribly intimidating. I don’t know why they didn’t come _here_ , Tuor being a Man and all…”

“What did you think of them?” Eärendil asked.

“The man - Crandor - reminds me of my grandfather, a little. His wife, Auriel, is pregnant. Their third child, they said, but the first two did not live beyond their second year.” She shuddered. “And not even because of orcs or marauders. They just got sick.” Elwing sat her teacup down and clasped her hands in her lap again, tightly this time, white-knuckled. “I greatly admire them. Their strength of will, I mean. They traveled here all the way from the Ered Luin, with their elderly and the very young.”

“We’ll be happy for their swords later, I think.”

“Mm.” Elwing leaned back, casting her gaze out the window. It was snowing again, a light flurry that sent snowflakes whirling and tumbling through the air on the lightest breeze. The sea was calm, steely grey beneath the paler sky. “Eärendil, what you said last night…?”

“You’ll have to be more specific; I said several things last night.”

She gave him a withering look. “You know what I mean. Did you really mean it?”

“That depends on how you feel about it.”

That made her roll her eyes. “You are _so_ \- ”

“Hopeless?” Eärendil suggested.

Her lips twitched. “Incorrigible.”

Eärendil laughed out loud. “I think I like that better. Because I’m really not hopeless, you know. I’m filled with hope. Filled to the brim.”

“Hope for what?”

“Lots of things. That spring will come again. That someday you might actually like me…”

“I _do_ like you!” Elwing protested. Then she blushed. “I mean, I enjoy your company. On occasion.”

She was saved from further embarrassment by the return of Eärendil’s parents; Círdan still lingered in discussion with Celeborn. Elwing greeted Tuor and Idril politely, but excused herself almost immediately.

Idril watched her go with a knowing look in her eyes, while Tuor flashed Eärendil a grin. “Nice to see you two getting along so well,” he said.

Eärendil felt his face heat up. “She only came here to escape your boring talk,” he said.

Idril laughed. “I would hardly call stories of Celeborn’s youth, and the Great Journey, _boring_. But perhaps Elwing is yet too young to appreciate learning history from those who were present.”

Tuor shrugged. “Or maybe she only sought an excuse to come see Eärendil. I think that’s more likely.”

“You’re as bad as the fisher wives by the harbor,” Eärendil muttered, turning to start cleaning up the tea. “Honestly, you’d think there was nothing more important than my relationship with Elwing - or the lack thereof.”

Idril laughed and embraced him. “Let the fisher wives talk, Eärendil. Such gossip is harmless, and a good distraction in these dark times.”

“Like sketching shipbuilding plans?” Eärendil asked, keeping his voice light. Both his parents froze. Then his mother sighed, and his father muttered something under his breath about remembering to lock doors. “Why is that such a big secret? Where are you planning to sail?”

After a very long pause, Tuor answered, “West.”

Eärendil blinked. Then he frowned. “What do you mean _West?_ To Balar? You hardly need…”

“No, Eärendil,” Idril said gently. “ _West_.”

“To _Valinor?_ You mean like Voronwë tried to sail to Valinor? How everyone else who has ever tried since the Noldor came to Beleriand have been shipwrecked or drowned?” Eärendil’s voice rose with each word until he was shouting. He did not know whether he was angry or frightened or merely confused - or perhaps a combination of all three. “Why would you want to _do_ that?”

“Calm _down_ , Eärendil,” his mother said sharply.

“When were you going to _tell_ me you were leaving?” he demanded. “Were you going to wait until Eärramë was finished?”

“Of course not,” Tuor said. “It will take several _years_ to complete Eärramë - and how do you even know that name?”

“He’s very thorough in his snooping,” Idril said dryly. “Eärendil, we _were_ going to discuss this with you as soon as there was something to discuss. At this point we have not even decided for certain whether we _will_ attempt to sail West.”

But Eärendil could tell from the look on his father’s face that he, at least, would sail. Tuor had felt the pull of the Sea ever since he first beheld it in Nevrast, and Eärendil knew that it had only been growing stronger as they dwelt by Sirion. And when he did sail, Eärendil did not think he would return.


	4. Chapter Four

Spring blew into Beleriand with rain enough to swell Sirion into minor flooding. The town’s streets turned to smaller rivers, and mud got everywhere, in spite of everyone’s valiant efforts.

Eärendil didn’t care about the wet. As soon as it was warm enough to be outside without risking a cold or worse, he abandoned the house, and all the tension within, in favor of practicing sailing in bad weather with Aerandir, and often went home with his friend, instead of returning to Tuor and Idril’s house. His mother seemed caught between wanting to coddle him like a child and treating him like the adult he was swiftly becoming. Tuor could usually mediate between the two, but the designs and plans for Eärramë consumed much of his time, spent locked away with Círdan, when Círdan was not with Galadriel and Celeborn, or visiting others in Sirion.

At last, the sun came out, and when the mud dried Elwing made good on her word, and dragged Eärendil away from the shore into the forest to teach him woodcraft - which she did mostly by leaving him to fumble around alone while she flitted in and out of view for an hour or so, before relenting and coming to teach him to read the signs in broken twigs and half-visible footprints, and how to tell a tree by its leaves or its bark. Eärendil tried to pay attention to her words - he really did - but they had never spent so much time in such close proximity before, and he was constantly distracted by the way her hair tickled his face when she turned her head, and the feather-light touch of her hand on his arm.

Finally, Elwing turned to scowl at him. “Do you want to learn woodcraft or not?” she demanded.

“Of course I do,” Eärendil said, offering her a smile. “You have a leaf in your hair.” He reached up to pick it out, but she swatted his hand away. “And you have some dirt there…” He wiped at a smudge across her nose before she could swat him again. “You don’t get leaves in your hair when sailing.”

“You get covered in salt and sand instead,” Elwing replied, wrinkling her nose. “And come back smelling of fish.”

“I don’t _always_ end up smelling of fish,” Eärendil protested as she started walking again. He jogged to catch up, though he stayed a step behind Elwing to pick a few more leaves out of her hair. She turned to raise an eyebrow at him. “You should braid your hair, or something,” he said, holding up the leaves. She just rolled her eyes and turned around again. “I think you’re the only girl I’ve ever met who isn’t always tying ribbons in her hair.”

“I might if they stayed where I put them,” Elwing replied.

She led the way out of the forest, and once they were out of the trees Eärendil fell into step beside her, prepared to convince her that the next day should be spent out on the bay. But before he could even take a breath to begin, Elwing stopped, cocking her head to listen. “Do you hear that?”

Eärendil halted. “What is it?”

“Music.” Someone was playing the harp, and someone else accompanied them on the flute. After a moment more, Eärendil thought he could hear a drum, too. “Come on!” Elwing seized his hand and, in spite of his protestations, pulled him back along the forest. They skirted the freshly-sown wheat fields, and found half a dozen young elves in a glade, with blankets, and baskets of food and wine. As they approached, one of the girls lifted her voice in song, and a couple of the others jumped up and started to dance - a fast, wild, spinning dance Eärendil didn’t recognize.

Eärendil and Elwing were welcomed with bright smiles and offers of wine. Elwing, to Eärendil’s surprise, smiled as she accepted a cup and sat down. These were Sindar, mostly from Doriath, come out to the forest to celebrate the coming of spring, and all of them were more than happy to have their Princess join them.

“What brings _you_ out to the forest?” one of them asked Eärendil, raising an eyebrow. “We all thought your heart was given to the sea.”

“It is, mostly,” Eärendil replied easily, sipping the sweet berry wine. “But every so often it’s nice to have a change.”

“Is that it? I would have guessed it was something else that drew you away - or, I should say, some _one?_ ”

Eärendil rolled his eyes, but said nothing to confirm or deny. His new companion laughed and pulled him to his feet, as someone else urged Elwing to hers. “Hey, wait - ” Eärendil started to protest, but before he could finish the sentence, he and Elwing were caught in the wild circle of dancers, spinning and, in Eärendil’s case, stumbling to keep up. Elwing, face flushed from the wine and eyes sparkling, laughed, and pulled him along, so he had no choice but to learn the steps or fall flat on his face. Fortunately for him, the dance was not complicated - just very fast, and growing faster with each round.

They danced and drank and laughed the whole afternoon away, and were joined by more and more young Sindar, bringing food and wine and their own instruments, as twilight set in. Eärendil soon found himself sitting off to the side, watching the dancing and particularly watching Elwing as she seemed to hold court, discussing serious things in between the laughter and songs, floating from one conversation to another, when she wasn’t swept up in the dancing. She was quiet, but commanded attention whenever she spoke, and when she smiled and laughed it was infectious.

“Yes, you just wanted a _change_ ,” said Eärendil’s new friend, Gladir, whose fingers were never idle. He plucked a simple tune on his harp as he grinned at Eärendil. “I see the rumors are true.”

Lovely, more gossip. Eärendil sighed. “What rumors?”

“That your love for Elwing rivals Beren’s for Lúthien.”

Eärendil rolled his eyes again, so hard it almost hurt. The bit about Beren and Lúthien was new. “I doubt that. I don’t think I’d attempt to steal a Silmaril from Morgoth to win Elwing’s hand.” Gladir laughed. “I don’t understand why everyone is so _convinced_ \- ”

“It’s _obvious_ , is why,” Gladir interrupted. He strummed a chord on his harp, as the drummers started rapping a quick tempo for another wild dance. Eärendil felt dizzy just watching the dancers leap and spin. He took another gulp of wine. “Perhaps it is so obvious you yourself cannot see it.”

Eärendil decided it was time to change the subject. “Why are all your dances so…fast?” This party was nothing like the stately balls he recalled from Gondolin.

Gladir laughed again. “Have you Noldor forgotten everything from before the Great Journey? These steps are as old as the music we made in Cuiviénen, when we danced to summon good weather or to ensure luck on a hunt. Now we dance for luck and joy in the coming year.” He pulled Eärendil to his feet. “Luck for lovers, too.” And with that, he shoved Eärendil into the spinning circle. Eärendil yelped and stumbled, before someone, laughing, grabbed his hands to pull him along. His world became a blur of dark hair and bright skirts and flickering firelight, and the wine gone to his head, and ancient songs of rich earth and green growing things conjured images of ancient forests and white flowers springing into bloom on the banks of an enchanted river, where reflected stars shimmered like liquid diamonds.

The moon was setting when, at last, Elwing appeared at his side again, taking his cup and frowning at Gladir. “I asked you make sure he _didn’t_ drink too much, Gladir!”

“I’m sorry, princess,” Gladir replied, not sounding sorry at all. “I thought you asked me to make sure his cup stayed _full_.”

“I don’t mind,” Eärendil said, reaching for his cup, but Elwing handed it to someone else, who raised it in a toast to Eärendil before draining it. “I wanted to finish that…”

“I think it’s time we returned home,” Elwing said, lips twitching. “Good night, Gladir.” Eärendil stumbled just a little as she pulled him away from the fire, as someone opened another bottle of wine.

“Do you do that every spring?” he asked, blinking in the darkness as they passed across the fields, the music fading slowly behind them. It was almost startlingly peaceful, out in the open, with the sound of the sea a distant roar mingling with the drums and flutes, and the crickets. His head felt light, like it wasn’t quite connected to the rest of his body, and just floating along. His feet didn’t seem to want to cooperate, either.

Elwing laughed. Maybe it was the wine (affecting her or him, he wasn’t quite sure), but she seemed far more at ease than Eärendil thought he’d ever seen her. Gone was the tension in her shoulders, and she moved with a dancer’s grace, like the music flowed in her veins instead of blood. “Yes,” she said. “And in the summer, and in the autumn, and on occasion in the winter, too.”

“And they’re all like that?”

She turned to him, eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Is it too wild for you, Noldo?”

“No!” Eärendil said quickly. “I liked it! I just didn’t realize…”

She laughed again. “You should have seen some of the celebrations of the Green Elves, in Ossiriand, if you think tonight was wild.”

When they returned to the courtyard between their houses, they found Tuor lounging by the fountain, apparently waiting for them, which completely ruined Eärendil’s half-formed, half-coherent plans to possibly try to tell Elwing how lovely he thought she looked in the moonlight. _“There_ you are,” he said to Eärendil as Elwing bid them both goodnight and went inside. “I was wondering…are you _drunk?_ ” His eyebrows rose as Eärendil paused, trying to decide whether a denial was necessary. “I think that is a yes.” Tuor looked hard at Eärendil for a moment, before glancing toward the door closing behind Elwing. “Were you two together all evening?”

“There was a party. In the forest,” Eärendil said finally, realizing with sudden (drunken) clarity just how much wine he had consumed. “With music. And dancing. And - um - wine.”

“Obviously, there was wine,” Tuor said dryly. He slung Eärendil’s arm over his shoulders, and together they staggered inside. “You’re lucky your mother’s already in bed.”

“Everyone thinks I’m in love with Elwing,” Eärendil said as they reached his room. He wasn’t quite sure his bed had ever looked so comfortable. “But I’m _not_.”

“Of course you’re not,” Tuor said. He pushed Eärendil down onto the bed, and set about untying his boots, like he had when Eärendil was very small.

“I just maybe wanna kiss her. A little.”

Tuor laughed. “If you say so, Eärendil.”

“It’s _true_.”

“Mhmm. Arms up.” Eärendil obediently raised his arms, and Tuor pulled his tunic up over his head, tossing it into the corner. “You don’t feel sick, do you?”

Eärendil had to consider the question for a moment. “Umm…”

“I’ll get a bucket. If you do have to use it, make sure you get it all _in_ the bucket. Cleaning up after yourself will just make you sicker, and it’s a miserable cycle to get caught in.” Eärendil suspected his father spoke from experience, and made a note to ask Voronwë for the relevant stories later, when he could form the question coherently. Tuor disappeared only for a moment, before coming back with a bucket, which he placed right beside the bed. “Good night, Eärendil.”

“Good night, Ada.”

His dreams that night were filled with fire and shadow-dark hair and moonlit grey eyes. But they ended suddenly and painfully, when someone threw open the shutters of his window to let sunshine stream in, bringing terrible pain along with it. Eärendil groaned and rolled over, throwing his arms over his head. He hadn’t felt sick the night before, but his stomach twisted now, and his mouth tasted terrible.

“That’s what you get, when you drink so much,” Idril said, not unkindly, but not very sympathetically, either. Eärendil thought she must have never been drunk in her life, and made a note to ask Voronwë about that, too. “It’s nearly noon.” Eärendil could only respond with another groan. “Elwing was here earlier, asking about you.”

That made Eärendil sit up, although he regretted it almost immediately. “Urgh,” he said.

Idril stood in the center of his room with a frown on her face, hands on her hips. Her scolding stance. “And here I thought, when Voronwë reported you weren’t in any of those ale houses by the docks last night, that we wouldn’t have this problem,” she said. “Where in the _world_ did you go to end up with this kind of hangover?”

“Um, the forest?” Eärendil rubbed his face, wishing he could crawl beneath the blankets again. “There was a party. Sindar. Welcoming spring. Elwing was there, too.”

“I doubt she drank as carelessly as you,” Idril replied. Her face softened, and she leaned down to kiss Eärendil’s forehead. “Your father has a hangover cure in the kitchen for you.”

She swept out of the room, leaving Eärendil to fumble with his clothes, to stumble out a few minutes later with one sock on and his tunic’s laces only half tied. As Idril had said, Tuor was waiting in the kitchen. He pressed cup of some foul-smelling concoction into Eärendil’s hands with a grin. “It tastes as bad as you think,” he said. “Just gulp it down, and I promise you’ll feel better.”

Eärendil made a face, but obeyed, spluttering and coughing as it went down. But he did feel better, marginally. He had no appetite, but Tuor insisted he eat a light meal, and drink a lot of water - which _did_ do a lot to help.

“So,” Tuor said as Eärendil finished eating, “what have we learned?” It was a question Eärendil had heard many times as a child, mostly while being stitched up after some ill-thought-out escapade or another.

“Don’t rely on a Sinda for your drinks,” Eärendil replied, thinking of Gladir and his teasing smile and fingers that were never still.

Tuor snorted. “That wasn’t _exactly_ what I was thinking.”

“Um.” Thinking of last night had conjured images of Elwing smiling and dancing, skirts flaring and eyes sparkling, and Eärendil momentarily forgot what he was supposed to be saying. “Uh.”

“Never mind. I don’t know if you recall vehemently denying having feelings for Lady Elwing last night, but that look on your face tells a completely different story.” Eärendil opened his mouth to protest, but Tuor rose. “If you feel up to it, we’re starting to prepare the lumber for Eärramë today, which I think you’ll find worthwhile.”

“All right.” Eärendil frowned at his plate for a moment, then asked, as Tuor reached the doorway, “Adar?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you going to sail _West?_ ”

Tuor didn’t answer for a long time. He stared at the floor, frowning, as he leaned against the door frame. He looked suddenly very tired, the lines of care on his face appearing deeper, the faint streaks of grey in his hair standing out. Finally, he said, “Because we cannot continue to fight this war alone, and the Valar will not come unless someone asks them to.”

“But why does it have to be _you?_ ”

“Because no one else is going to. And - well, I _was_ Ulmo’s messenger. That must count for something.”

Eärendil returned to his room to dress properly before heading outside, where he found Elwing in the garden with a book. “Feeling better?” she asked without looking up.

“Much,” he replied, leaning over. “Is that in _Quenya?_ ”

“Yes,” she replied, speaking Quenya. “I’ve been studying it since last autumn.” It felt strange to hear the language of the Noldor coming from her. Eärendil blinked as she smiled up at him. Switching back to Sindarin, she added, “Lady Galadriel has been teaching me. She’s also insisted I learn Telerin, but I’m not nearly fluent enough to try using that language in conversation.”

“I’m…surprised,” Eärendil said, frowning. “What about the Ban…?”

Elwing waved a hand. “Celeborn says Thingol decreed that in a fit of anger, but couldn’t retract it later without seeming foolish. Anyway, it was all well and good when Thingol still ruled Doriath, and no one could enter or leave without his permission - ”

“Except Beren,” Eärendil said.

“ - who didn’t know Quenya _anyway_ , but that’s not the point. Doriath is no more, and we’re living here all mixed up, Noldor and Sindar and the Laiquendi and Edain and others, and there just isn’t any _point_ in trying to enforce some ridiculous Ban like that.

“And anyway, there was nothing to do all winter, except learn a new language.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Eärendil said, speaking Quenya himself. It always felt a little strange, since even in Gondolin the everyday language had been Sindarin, but he loved the language of his mother’s people. “I’m going to watch them prepare to start building my parents’ ship. Would you like to come?” He didn’t really expect her to say yes - shipbuilding wasn’t something he thought Elwing would ever have much interest in - but it was worth asking.

As expected, she declined, but reminded Eärendil he’d promised to take her sailing on his own boat. “Maybe tomorrow, if this clear weather holds,” Eärendil said as he left the garden. He raised a hand, and she returned the wave, and if he smiled all the way to the lumber yards - well, it certainly wasn’t because he was in _love_.

Voronwë greeted him with a wide grin. “I heard you had quite the experience last night,” he said.

“Did you hear it from my mother or my father?” Eärendil asked.

“Tuor. I hope you don’t expect to hear the end of it any time soon.” Voronwë leaned in as they walked over to join Tuor and Annael, whispering loudly, “But it seems you hold your drink far better than your father!” Annael snorted, covering a smile with his hand, as Tuor rolled his eyes, cheeks reddening, before pointedly changing the subject to wood and trees and ships.


	5. Chapter 5

Once work on Eärrámë began, it continued steadily. Eärendil had his own plans for his own ship - in a hazy-someday sort of way - so he spent a lot of time in the shipyards with his father, learning everything he could. Dinner table conversations centered mostly around that topic, except when Idril guided it gently to her desire for Eärendil to spend some time on Balar with his cousin Gil-galad.

“But there’s so much happening _here_ ,” Eärendil protested.

“I’m sure there’s just as much happening on Balar,” Idril replied. “Anyway, _I’ve_ been wanting to visit Ereinion; is it truly too much to ask my son to accompany me?”

Put that way, there wasn’t really any way for Eärendil to refuse. He sighed. “When do we leave?”

Idril smiled. “In a few weeks. Plenty of time for you to say farewell to your sweetheart.”

“She is _not_ my _sweetheart!_ ”

“He just wants to kiss her, a little,” Tuor added. Eärendil groaned and buried his face in his hands. Both his parents laughed. “You may as well just admit it, son,” Tuor advised. “It’s obvious to everyone. Lady Galadriel has been predicting the match for years.”

“You say that like she’s had some foresight about it,” Eärendil muttered.

“Maybe she has,” Idril replied. “Although I can’t say it takes foresight to come to such a conclusion. Elwing guards her own thoughts and emotions more closely than you do, but I think she’s growing rather fond of you as well.”

“Although the women of her family have been known to have strange effects on the men,” Tuor said, expression growing thoughtful. “There’s that decidedly odd tale about Elu and Melian…”

“I can’t believe everyone _really_ believes they were _standing_ that whole time,” Idril said. “It must be a euphemism, because you _know_ what they were _really_ doing.”

Eärendil choked on his bite of dinner roll. _“Naneth_.”

“What? _Something_ more than staring at him must have enticed Melian to bind herself to Thingol. I highly doubt it was his even temper and good judgment.”

“I hope you two haven’t been - ahem - _standing_ in the forest watching the trees grow around you,” Tuor said. He had waited until Eärendil lifted his glass to take a drink, and very nearly got sprayed with water for his troubles.

“ _Adar!_ ”

The next morning Eärendil went to call on Elwing. “The weather is good,” he told her when she came to the door. “Will you come sailing with me?”

“I suppose today’s as good as any other,” she said. “Come in for a moment. I want to change into something more suitable for boating.”

Eärendil stepped into the parlor, where Lady Galadriel sat writing a letter. She rose smoothly to greet him. Eärendil always felt as though Galadriel could see right through him - like she was always reading into his thoughts and intentions. Maybe she was. “I’ve heard Idril is planning to stay a time on Balar,” Galadriel said as she sat down again, waving Eärendil to a chair as well. “Will you be accompanying her?”

“Yes,” he said. “Naneth wants me to get to know Gil-galad.”

“I think you’ll get along well,” Galadriel said. “Or at least I hope so. Perhaps I am not an impartial judge, but Gil-galad is a good man, and will be a good king, given the chance.”

“All right, I’m ready.” Elwing stopped in the doorway, wearing a gown of faded grey, fraying a bit at the sleeves, and patched in places—something that would survive any potential soaking. “We will be out on the bay in Eärendil’s boat,” she said to Galadriel.

“Be careful,” was all Galadriel said, though she smiled at them both as they left.

Eärendil let out a breath as they stepped into the sunshine. “She makes me nervous. The way she looks at you...”

Elwing laughed. “She isn’t always like that.”

“I rather suspect you’ve just gotten used to it.”

Eärendil took Elwing’s hand, and together they ran down to the docks. Eärendil helped Elwing step into his skiff, and in only a few minutes they were skimming across the waves, feeling the spray on their faces, and waving to other boaters spending the day on the water. As Eärendil adjusted the sails, he glanced down at Elwing, who sat very still, peering over the side of the boat into the waves. “So,” he said. “What do you think?”

She looked up at him, strands of hair blowing across her face. “I half expected to feel seasick. But I don’t.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes. Oh - look!” Eärendil leaned forward, pointing out toward Balar, where a pod of dolphins had drawn up beside a fishing vessel. “Dolphins. A lot of the fishermen befriend them.”

“I’ve heard tales of sharks,” Elwing said, peering into the water with a frown. “There aren’t any in these waters, are there?”

“Not that I’ve seen, though Aerandir said he knows a few people on Balar who have been bitten. He may have just been trying to scare me, though.”

Elwing laughed. “Did it work?”

“No.” He paused. “Well. Not much.”

As they sailed farther from the shore, Elwing gazed out at the sea, beyond the bay, beyond Balar. “It’s so _vast_ ,” she said softly. “Doesn’t _that_ frighten you?”

He shook his head. “It makes me want to know what lies beyond it,” he said. “Not Valinor, really, but what might lie to the south, or the north, what lands lay undiscovered by us, and who might live there. It’s huge, but so full of _possibility_ and adventure.”

“I think I would hate being out at sea, unable to see land.” Elwing glanced over her shoulder toward Sirion, as though to make sure Beleriand had not vanished while she wasn’t paying attention.

“Here,” Eärendil said, preparing to turn the boat around, “take this rope.” He showed Elwing how to manage the sails, and how to steer, and after he tossed a line into the water they made their way to a deserted stretch of beach some way from Sirion, to cook and eat their catch. Elwing gutted the fish while Eärendil built the fire out of driftwood, and found some flat rocks to rinse off and use to cook the meat.

As it sizzled, he told Elwing of his mother’s plans to go to Balar for a time. “No doubt we’ll end up spending all summer and the winter there,” he said.

“Galadriel has spoken once or twice of going as well,” Elwing said. “She asked if I should like to visit Gil-galad’s court, but I should prefer to stay here.”

“I think the Noldor enjoy politics more than the Sindar,” Eärendil said. “Most of them, anyway.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m only going because Gil-galad is my cousin. Or at least, he is my mother’s cousin...”

She smiled a little. “Your first cousin once removed, to be accurate.” Eärendil shrugged. “Well anyway, he can’t be all bad. His mother is a Sinda. From Mithrim, I think, although I think Galadriel might have mentioned she was related somehow to Daeron.”

“Well, one thing I don’t think I’ll mind, is the parties.” Eärendil grinned at Elwing. “With stately dances to harps and lutes, and Noldorin wine light as a summer breeze…”

Elwing rolled her eyes. “That sounds painfully boring.”

“Not entirely boring. Or at least, the ones in Gondolin weren’t.”

“Balar isn’t anything like Gondolin.”

“I’m sure the dances aren’t that different.” Eärendil got to his feet and pulled Elwing up. “I used to watch my mother waltz with her father. Your hands go like this…” He placed Elwing’s hand on his shoulder, his hand on her waist, and took her other hand in his, “and then you dance, like this…” He hummed a tune he vaguely remembered Glorfindel (or Ecthelion? Perhaps both) playing, and together he and Elwing waltzed around their fire. Elwing’s skirts whispered across the sand, and as they settled into the rhythm of the dance she relaxed, even smiled as she spun lightly beneath Eärendil’s arm.

When the song ended, or at least the part Eärendil remembered, they stopped, but Elwing didn’t move to step out of Eärendil’s arms. “That was rather nice,” she said, smiling at him. “Not very exciting, but nice.”

“I think part of the appeal is that one is able to converse with their partner,” Eärendil replied. “I mean, we couldn’t because I was providing the music, but…”

“You have a good voice,” Elwing said, finally stepping back. “Like your father.”

“Well, unlike my father, I have absolutely no skill with the harp.”

After they ate the fish, and lounged for most of the afternoon on the warm sand, they covered the dying fire with sand, and together pushed the skiff out into the water. Once out in the bay, Eärendil looked west. The sun was setting, turning the western sky a dozen shades of deep blue and purple; in the east, the first stars flared, heralding the twilight. Only two feathery clouds hovered in the sky, two bright streaks of gold.

When he turned his head towards the north, he saw other clouds, seemingly untouched by the setting sun - dark, roiling, heralding a violent storm.

They did not speak throughout the short voyage back to Sirion, but when Eärendil helped Elwing out of the skiff, she did not let go of his hand, and kept holding onto it as they wound their way through Sirion’s streets (oddly quiet, perhaps in anticipation of the storm) until they reached home. Then, she broke the silence. “Today was nice, Eärendil. Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” he said. They stopped to look at each other in the twilight. Eärendil wanted to say something else, but couldn’t think of anything. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to Elwing’s lips, deciding he had better do it before he lost his nerve. He fully expected to be slapped, or for her to turn and disappear into her house never to be seen by him again, but instead of doing either, she tugged him back down and kissed _him_ , rising onto her toes, eyelashes tickling his cheek.

She pulled back and smiled at him, while Eärendil, in an effort not to say anything stupid, ended up saying nothing at all. “I will see you tomorrow, Eärendil. Good night.”

“Good - good night?” Eärendil watched her disappear inside, and then turned to go home himself…

Only to find his mother in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, clearly trying not to laugh. He felt his face flush hot, hearing his father somewhere behind her laughing. “I take it your outing went well?” Idril asked as Eärendil stepped inside.

“It went very well, thank you,” Eärendil said. “I think I’m going to go change…”

“We’ll be down here planning the wedding,” Tuor said. He raised his wineglass to Eärendil in a toast with a grin and a wink.

“ _Adar,_ ” Eärendil began to protest, but his mother cut in.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tuor.” She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down. Eärendil crossed his arms and opened his mouth to thank her, but then she added, “We can’t start planning the wedding _tonight_. It will have to be a blend of Sindarin and Noldorin traditions, I think. We’ll consult Galadriel tomorrow…”

“Oh for the love of…” Eärendil threw up his hands and left the room, and his parents’ laughter, behind. It was nearly impossible to be happy about the day and the way it ended when they were busy laughing at him over it.

But as he lounged on his bed, a book on his lap in case someone came into the room and caught him daydreaming, Eärendil played back the evening. He knew the grin on his face was silly, but that was all right, now that there was no one to see it. It wasn’t just the kiss that made him so happy, it was the fact that _she_ had kissed _him_.

He drifted off to sleep to the sound of his parents laughing downstairs, and dreamed of sunlight on clear water, until he was woken in the middle of the night. What had woken him, he at first could not tell. Eärendil sat up in the darkness, listening hard. It had been a noise, of that he was certain. All of a sudden it was like he was back in one of their camps, after fleeing Gondolin, when everyone was on alert and no one slept more than an hour at a time - when even a rabbit in the bush or a bird alighting on a branch had warriors leaping to their feet and reaching for their swords, because one never knew when a stick breaking in the forest heralded not a deer but orcs…

The soft _plink_ of something hitting his window made Eärendil jump, but when it happened again a moment later, he took a deep breath and got up to investigate. He was in Sirion; there were no orcs anywhere near here, and even if there were, his parents sent out regular patrols so there would be ample warning. _Stop being stupid, Eärendil._

The sounds at his window turned out to be pebbles, tossed up from the garden. Eärendil opened his window just as another one soared up, and bounced onto the windowsill and then to the floor. He leaned out, scanning the ground for their source. He thought at first it might be Aerandir, but it turned out to be Elwing. Her pale face glimmered in the starlight, and as soon as she saw him she turned and darted into the gardens, quick and silent as a shadow.

It too considerably longer for Eärendil to sneak out of the house. Every floorboard suddenly seemed to creak the moment he put his weight on it, and for one tense minute he froze halfway into the kitchen, sure that he heard Voronwë walking around. But eventually he made it out, pausing by the door to pull on his boots, before hurrying into the garden, heading for the honeysuckle bushes, behind which he found Elwing, sitting and twirling one of the pale blossoms in her fingers. “Is everything all right?” he asked as he crawled through the branches to join her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said without looking up. “And I felt lonely.” She glanced at him briefly, without turning her head.

He smiled, a little. “So you sought my company? I’m flattered.”

“I suppose I woke you. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mind. Though we should be careful, lest someone sees us. My parents already want to start planning the wedding.”

Elwing winced. “They saw us in the courtyard, then?”

“Yes. My mother mentioned consulting Lady Galadriel on the wedding tomorrow, but I think she might have been joking.”

Elwing looked up at him. “You remember we joked about this. Getting married.”

“Yes, we did. You were certain it would never work.”

“I am still not sure it would,” she said. “You still intend to build a ship and sail away, don’t you?”

“I’d come back,” Eärendil said. “And you could come with me—”

Elwing shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. I could not leave Sirion—I have responsibilities to my people, to the Iathrim and other Sindar who will look to me to rule them as soon as I am deemed ready. You Noldor may have plenty of kings to choose from, but I am the last of Thingol’s line.”

Eärendil wanted to protest, to say there weren’t _plenty_ of kings—only himself and Gil-galad, now that he thought of it, if one didn’t count his mother and Galadriel (which the Noldor never did, for some reason)—but he said nothing. Instead, after a full minute of silence, he said, “You’re talking as though you are seriously considering marrying me.”

Elwing rolled her eyes. “Well I cannot think of anyone else I’d like to marry. And you—I didn’t want to, but I _have_ grown rather fond of you.”

“I’m…flattered?”

“It’s not—I didn’t want to like you because I didn’t want to like _any_ Noldo. I thought—well. It doesn’t matter anymore. It was a childish idea.”

“No, I understand.” Eärendil hesitated a moment before putting an arm around Elwing’s shoulders. She leaned against him, tucking her head against his shoulder and under his chin. Her hair tickled his nose. “Ours is an…odd courtship, isn’t it?” That made her laugh. “But I think I’d rather not talk about getting married just yet. I mean, I realize so far we’ve done everything much more swiftly than is normal for Elves, but…”

“If we’re going to marry, we should do it before your parents depart,” Elwing said. Eärendil grimaced, and he must have tensed because she said quickly, “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like to think of it.”

“The work on Eärrámë is coming along swiftly…”

Elwing sat up suddenly. “Come with me.” She took Eärendil’s hand and pulled him to his feet. He followed her back through the garden and, to his surprise, into her home. She paused in the middle of the kitchen and turned back to Eärendil, pressing her finger to her lips. Then she gestured for him to remove his boots. Eärendil complied, wishing he dared ask her what they were doing, but she did not give him the chance, seizing his hand and pulling him to the stairs. They crept up slowly, freezing every time Eärendil hit a creaky step (Elwing stepped so lightly and silently he almost wondered if she floated), and once Elwing pressed both hands over his mouth when he stubbed a toe, to muffle the whispered curses.

But at last they made it to her room, filled with soft golden lamplight, and could relax, and speak in whispers. Eärendil sat on a chair and rubbed his sore toe as Elwing delved into a trunk at the foot of her bed. “Why are we here?” he asked, trying to resist looking around. Her room was sparse, for the most part, but she had pine boughs and flowers in a couple of vases, giving it a fresh, woodland smell, and the desk was laden with books and papers. He peered at one of them and found a partial translation of a lay apparently written by Elemmírë of the Vanyar. Eärendil did not recognize the words; it was not one ever sung in Gondolin.

“I want to show you something,” Elwing replied. She pulled a somewhat-tattered satchel from the very bottom of the trunk. Eärendil recognized the work as that of the Laiquendi; Voronwë had a similar satchel, though bigger and more salt-stained. “Since my father gave this to me, no one else has seen it,” she told Eärendil, sitting back on her heels, expression solemn. “Not even Galadriel or Celeborn.”

Eärendil slipped to the floor, heart suddenly pounding as he realized what she was about to show him. “Why are you showing me?”

“Because—because it’s important. But…” She clutched the satchel to her chest, now frowning at him. “You must tell _no one_. Do you promise?”

He nodded. “Of course. I promise.”

And she opened the satchel. It was as though it held a star inside, and when she drew out the Nauglamír Eärendil’s breath caught in his throat. It had been set in the center of the great necklace (made for shoulders far broader than Elwing’s) and was surrounded by dozens of many-colored gems that seemed lit from within by bright fires. But none could compare with the Silmaril itself. Its blazing light filled the room, casting everything in sharp relief, and illuminating Elwing herself, making her hair shine and eyes sparkle.

But only for a few moments. Elwing returned the Jewel to its satchel, and the satchel to the bottom of the trunk, while Eärendil blinked spots out of his eyes. In comparison to the Silmaril, the lamp on her desk seemed no brighter than embers. “Galadriel keeps telling me I should wear it openly. On high days, or at festivals.”

“Why won’t you?” Eärendil asked.

“Because when the rumors are proved true, it is only a matter of time before word reaches Maedhros.”

Eärendil frowned. “You don’t think—they wouldn’t, not _here_ , where there are Noldor…”

“My father did not think they would attack Doriath,” Elwing said quietly, “because we were Elves. Even so, I fear they will hear the rumors and come to Sirion anyway.” She turned to the trunk, running her fingers lightly over the wood. “I hate the Silmaril. I don’t care if it’s been hallowed by Elbereth herself—what are the Valar to us, here in Beleriand? They sit on their thrones in the Blessed Realm behind their mountain walls while we live in constant fear. Sometimes I think about just casting it into the Sea to be done with it.”

“But you don’t.”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t. I wish I knew why.”

“Well…” Eärendil reached out to take Elwing’s hands. “Thank you for showing me.” He smiled when she looked up at him. “I think I should go, now, though. Before someone discovers my boots in the kitchen.”

“That might be best.” Elwing got to her feet and led the way back to the kitchen door, both of them creeping slowly and as silently as they could. This time Eärendil did not run into anything. Elwing leaned against the doorway as he picked up his boots, deciding to cross the courtyard barefoot.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night, Eärendil.” Elwing stepped forward and rose onto her toes to kiss him. But she lost her balance and Eärendil had to catch her with his free arm and they banged heads and noses instead of actually kissing, and when their helpless laughter made a light go on in a bedroom overhead, Eärendil planted a swift kiss on her cheek before racing home, not even caring about all the smug, knowing smiles he would receive when word reached Sirion at large.


End file.
